A Letter From Abroad
by Steff
Summary: Patsy sends a letter back to Poplar from Hong Kong


**Summary** : Patsy writes home after arriving in Hong Kong

 **Disclaimer** : Call The Midwife belongs to the BBC and others - I am simply borrowing their beautiful characters.

 **Author's note:** Well, episode 6.2 was just amazing and truly emotional. I suspect it will provoke a number of fics from me but it was this one that grabbed my attention first.

Not beta'd - so, you know...

* * *

My darling Delia,

After what frankly was too long a voyage, I now find myself seated at my father's writing desk in his house in Hong Kong. As predicted, navigating the Cape provided the worst of the sailing conditions and I must sheepishly admit that I succumbed to mal de mer along with the vast majority of the ship's manifest.

I started and stopped many letters to you on the voyage. I realised that every one was a letter of want, need and regret. I want to be with you always. I need you more than words can express and I regret that I have inflicted this separation on us. But you know this. You know this all too well. Instead, I began a diary - if only to break up the monotony of staring at an endless sea. Much of my notes contain thoughts of you. When the ship berthed in Algiers, I could imagine you wandering around the markets, eyes wide with wonder. In India, the monkeys on the docks proved to be a delightful distraction. Unfortunately, they were accompanied by some of the biggest rats I have ever seen in my life. I believe that even Sister Monica Joan would struggle to love them.

Perhaps, when we are older and have time, we will undertake a long voyage together. If I travelled with you, I feel certain that the experience would be a pleasurable one, rather than a journey of torment and dreaded anticipation.

In amongst my daily scribblings, I have tried my hand at sketching various things I have seen in the ports where we stopped. I fear I will never find work as an illustrator as none of them are very good, but it has not stopped me practising. I will continue the journal while I am here in order to keep track of my days and highlight any events. If I am brave enough, I will send it to you when I have filled every page.

I always thought that I would never forget the oppressive humidity of the Far East. However, when we docked at Hong Kong and I disembarked, I felt almost hit by a wall of moist heat, and realised that my time away has indeed dulled the memory. It plays havoc with one's make up and hair. I felt as if every scrap of make up slowly dripped off my face, and my hair seems to have developed a will of its own. Hair lacquer is not a luxury here, it is an absolute necessity.

Fortunately, my father's house has many fans so at least the air is constantly moving. While the heat may be oppressive, it is tolerable inside. It will take me some time to become accustomed to such a difference in climate. In the meantime, I feel like I am permanently quenching my thirst with ice filled drinks and have rediscovered a liking for jasmine tea.

Father did not recognise me. I did not expect him to, despite his nurse telling me that he had been calling for me continually. I suspect he only really remembers me as a tall, gangly, painfully shy blonde girl. Rather bizarrely, that was exactly what I felt like when I first entered his room.

Oh Delia, for all that father didn't recognise me, I was the same. There was a frail old man lying in bed. He was helpless and frightened. I could see nothing of his bold confidence and brusque manners. It was like looking at a stranger. I wept. Forgive me for writing this, but for several moments I wondered why I had come. It surely would make no difference if I was here or not.

When he finally focused on me, his first words broke my heart. He called me by my mother's name. I felt my heart clench. I thought I had found a way to cope with my mother's loss. But to be mistaken for her by my father provoked a new pain. I have grown into a woman who bears a resemblance to what my mother was. It took all my strength not to run from his room and hide.

Honestly Delia, all I wanted to do was bury myself in your arms. It was at that moment that I wished I had somehow found an excuse to have you accompany me on this trip. I thought incessantly about that on the voyage. Many a solitary hour was spent trying to find a plausible excuse to get you out here. But not only could I not find a realistic reason, I know it would be terribly unfair to break your studies and remove you from your family.

Somehow, I forced myself to stay in the room, and tell my father who I was. He cried, Deels. My aloof, cold, epitome of stiff-upper-lip type British father, cried when he realised who I was. I cried too. I'm crying now, as I write these words.

My father was so grateful that I was there. He made me sit with him and then asked so many questions, my head spun. I only managed to address a few of them before he grew tired and needed to rest.

Delia, I fear you will say 'I told you so', but talking with my father seemed to calm him so. He was less restless by the time I left him to sleep and I believe that I offered him some comfort. I can only hope that this continues, and that my presence provides him succour at this time.

While he was resting, I took the opportunity to move into the guest room. As you have probably picked up from my letter, although I call this home, it does not feel like home to me. Too many years have passed since I was here, and too much has happened for me to have that association again. It is a house, with many familiar things, sounds and smells. But it is not home.

Home is where you are, Delia. I know that sounds like a glib statement with a hollow sentiment, but I truly mean it. When I think about how home feels, my overriding thought is how I feel when you hold me. When you lie next to me and cradle me in your strong arms and provide such loving protection one can almost see it. I think of your lilting accent, and how it thickens when you say something saucy or even downright suggestive. I think of your clear, honest blue eyes and those adorable dimples. I think of how embarrassed you get when I point out how attractive I find them, along with your impish smile. (I know you're blushing as you read this)

I also think about how many times I now believe I took our being together for granted. One could never describe our relationship as one of ease, but despite having to remain obsessively secret and despite almost losing you, we have been blessed in sharing the time we have together. I have been lucky that the woman who loves me is understanding and patient, and amazingly tolerant of my behaviour at times.

Sitting here, composing this letter has provided such a sharp insight for me. They say that nothing worth having is ever easy. I truly feel we are both being put to the test but I do know that I love you with all my heart. I know that you are there, waiting for my return. I remember when I asked if it was fair to ask you to do that. Wouldn't it be easier to part ways, knowing that we have no idea how long I will be in Hong Kong, I asked. I will never forget the look of outright indignation you had on your face. Nor how I felt when you told me that the alternative to waiting was simply unthinkable.

I'm crying again. I really must compose myself and fix my make up before returning to my father this evening. I apologise for the letter being somewhat disjointed and jumping around. I would like to promise that future letters will be more organised and methodical, but the reality is that me declaring my love for you, or wondering how lucky I am to have you, will end up bursting through all the letters I send, and at random times.

I miss you Delia. I have no words to describe how I miss your presence. I feel there is a massive hole missing from my whole life and persona. Please write whenever you feel the urge. Letters about the others and what they are up to; how Shelagh is getting on with her pregnancy; even how you're coping with Sister Ursula. I will absorb every detail and it will give me a feeling of home - a feeling of where you are.

I will write as often as I can, and try and describe Hong Kong to you, as well as how my daily life pans out. I fear the latter will be rather monotonous and routine, so finding things to write to you will provide some much needed relief.

Deels, I love you with all my heart and every cell of my body. I know I haven't said it to you enough. I find expressing emotion incredibly difficult at the best of times. Writing a letter is easier somehow. I suppose it is because I am using the paper as a medium for my thoughts and have the opportunity to rephrase things if I need to. I won't tell you how many drafts there were of this letter, but I will be honest and say that this is not the first one.

Be brave, dearest. It is not forever. We will be together again soon. I have one final confession before I sign off. I stole a bottle of your perfume. I have already sprayed it on my pillow so that I can at least pretend that you have been here. I know it is the action of a sentimental, love-sick fool, but I cannot deny that I am.

I love you with all my heart,

Patsy.


End file.
